


Yellow is a Happy Color

by Popples123



Series: Pete/Mikey/Patrick AU [7]
Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: (the act isn't described but there is a mention so just take care, Ace the fish is mentioned we are all here for him, Angst with a Happy Ending, Candles, Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Painting, Panic Attacks, Polyamory, Recovery, i am getting progressively worse at tags, look me in the mfing eye and tell me patrick ain't the purest person alive, u cannot, which may explain the aforementioned tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 14:50:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20508827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Popples123/pseuds/Popples123
Summary: “Your past recovery will always matter, even during a relapse - especially during a relapse, because it’s a reminder that you got better before and you can get better again."~Pete's mental health takes a turn for the worse, and Mikey and Patrick help walk him through it.





	Yellow is a Happy Color

**Author's Note:**

> Another little idea I've wanted to write for months and only done it now lol. Stayed up until 8am last night working on this, slept for four hours, then fixed it up until it looked somewhat decent, so I hope you enjoy it!!  
This deals with some sensitive topics like mental illness and relapses, so take care if any of that stuff may trigger you. Most of this is based off my own experiences with my anxiety and depressive episodes. This isn't a concrete portrayal of what these things are like for anyone else - it's just my personal experiences. I also may or may not have wrote this as a vent piece. Whoops.  
Anyways thank you as always for all the nice comments you guys leave on my stuff! Enjoy <3

He’s getting bad again.

It creeps up on him like a common cold, so subtle that he doesn’t make the connection at first. The weight on his chest and his heavy limbs are a result of exhaustion, and the endless numbness in his mind will leave after a quick nap and some hot chocolate.

He goes to bed early and sleeps for twelve hours. When he wakes up more drained than before, it’s because he slept too long. A perfect explanation, and it is also his excuse for not showering that night, or the next, or the next. His throat is parched, yet the thought of fetching more water has his heart thumping so fast he thinks he’s going to die.

That wouldn’t bother him, he realizes when he burns his lovers’ dinners in the oven and decides he deserves nothing but anguish and despair for such a foolish mistake, such a preventable error if only he hadn’t been so  _ stupid _ . He cries so hard his head pounds and he throws up into the sink until a set of arms hug him from behind and another pair squeezes a bucket between him and the counter. He can’t form words. He can’t vocalize his pain.

He’s made a mess of the sink and his mind is screaming at him. He needs to rip his skin apart.

“Is he sick?” Patrick’s voice sounds from behind him and the arms squeeze him tighter.

“Must be,” Mikey says. “Would explain a lot.”

Then the bucket vanishes and he can’t remember going to bed. He stares at the ceiling for hours, recoiling when a body snuggles up against his. He doesn’t want affection. Doesn’t deserve affection. Deserves nothing.

When he retreats to the spare room, he doesn’t announce his departure. Curled up under the bundle of white sheets, he loses control of his breathing altogether, fingernails digging into his chest to ground him, but even with all this, tears won’t come. His heart feels like it’s about to stop.

He wants it to.

~

“Pete is getting bad again.”

Mikey looks up from where he reads on the sofa, his legs crossed and several empty coffee mugs balanced on top of them. “What?”

“He’s getting bad again,” Patrick repeats. Mikey moves the mugs onto the floor before closing his copy of  _ Gallery of the Dead _ . “He didn’t show up for work.”

“You sure?” Mikey sets his book down and sits up straight. “I was up early and he wasn’t in bed. I haven’t seen him all morning. Where else would he have gone?”

Patrick picks at the fabric on the sleeve of his jumper. “He’s in the spare room. He won’t get up, he won’t eat - he won’t even talk to me.”

Mikey gnaws on his lip. If Pete goes silent, that usually means the episode is severe. He doesn’t know if Patrick has even seen Pete at his absolute worst before.

“What do we do?” Patrick’s voice quivers.

Suppressing his panic, Mikey stands and beckons for Patrick to follow him upstairs. He speedwalks along the hallway and only slows down once he presses the spare room’s door open.

Sure enough, a motionless lump lies under the heap of duvets. Patrick loiters at the doorway as Mikey approaches the bed.

“Pete,” he whispers and sits on the edge of the mattress. “Talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong.”

No response. Patrick edges closer, his eyes full of concern. “Pete, are you okay?”

Not even a movement, but his breathing is uneven enough to give away that he is awake. He’s listening.

Mikey tries again. “What do you need?”

He waits, even after ten minutes pass and Patrick glumly announces that he has to leave for work now. Mikey walks him to the car, kisses him and wishes him luck, and then he returns to his previous spot next to Pete.

If he wants to be alone, he’ll say so. Until then, Mikey will stay. Seeking company is infinitely more difficult than rejecting it. Pete doesn’t like coming across as vulnerable.

“I’m halfway through my new book.” Mikey’s mind wanders to the novel downstairs and how his fingers itch to turn the pages. I think I have a hunch on who the killer is. Just a theory, but it’s something. I reckon I'll finish it by tomorrow night.”

A muffled sigh sounds from under the covers but it isn’t irritated, and Mikey rests his hand on where Pete’s leg is. Pete’s body stiffens at the contact.

“Me and ‘Rick are making tacos tonight. We talked about it when we were outside just there. He’s going to pick up the ingredients on his way home.”

Pete rolls onto his side and the movement causes some of his jet-black hair to poke out from underneath the duvets. Mikey feathers a hand through the loose strands and wonders if Pete can sense it.

Then he speaks, the sentence so quiet Mikey can’t hear it, but Pete pulls back the duvets before Mikey can ask him to repeat himself.

Dark circles ring around his eyes and his lips are chapped and bloody. His stare is void of all life when he meets Mikey’s eyes.

“Can I have my notebook?”

“Yeah, sure, of course.” Mikey darts to the main bedroom to fish out the notebook from their nightstand, the tiny yellow one he sees Pete using a lot these days. He hurries back to the spare room and places the notebook on the pillow.

“Can I be alone?” Pete whispers, almost as if he’s scared to ask. "Please?"

Mikey closes his eyes as he squeezes Pete’s hand. Pete won’t make eye contact, won’t look at anything except the book lying next to him. 

“Of course,” Mikey says again. He wants to stay, but this isn’t about him and what he wants. It’s about what Pete wants. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

He doesn’t resume his book when he lies on the sofa. Instead, he turns on the TV for background noise and types a message to Patrick.

** _Mikey<3 - _ ** _ He’s writing. _

The response is instant.

** _Patrick :) - _ ** _ that’s good, right? _

Mikey’s hands tremble as he types, as his mind wanders back to his senior year and notes left next to empty pill bottles. To nights spent by hospital beds.

** _Mikey<3 - _ ** _ I don’t know. _

~

“The sun came out for us.” Patrick beams up at the sky, his golden hair gleaming in the sunlight. 

Mikey smiles at the beauty of it and links their arms together as they stroll along the sidewalk. “You’re very cute,” he says after Patrick turns his attention back to him, and he grins wider when Patrick blushes and stammers a flustered thank you.

They reach the same store Patrick bought their dinner from last night, and he nods politely at an employee who greets him by the door.

“Okay,” Mikey says once they grab a basket. “Dry shampoo, deodorant, a water bottle and some pens. Is that it?”

“I think so.” Patrick retrieves a pack of black ballpoint pens and tosses them in the basket. “And some snacks for us. Hear me out here - how do you feel about buying every single bagel in the bakery aisle?”

Mikey does a 180 and speeds towards said part of the store, already on board. “‘Rick, I fucking love you.”

~

They love him. Pete knows they do. It explains the dry shampoo so he doesn’t feel disgusting for not washing his hair, and their determination to keep him hydrated and fed. Why else would they do these things for him? Why else would Mikey give him his coffee flask, filled with hot chocolate instead, and why would Patrick allow Pete to conceal his greasy hair with his favorite grey beanie?

They love him. They must. But how can they when he’s like this? It doesn’t make sense.  _ Nothing _ makes sense, and he feels sick with hunger but he has to write. He’s good at this and only this. Everything else is pointless.

But the words won’t form the way he wants them to, and his rage has him snapping one of the new pens in half without any thought. Destroyed, just like him, just like his relationships will be when everyone around him realizes he’s useless and worthless and a burden on their lives and their happiness.

His throat locks up and his eyes sting from lack of sleep. He needs a hug, a kiss,  _ anything _ that’s contact. But his mouth won’t form words, won’t allow him even one good little thing out of fear of it being denied.

Rightly so, he thinks, and he throws the yellow notebook to the bottom of the mattress and sulks. He can’t bear to look at it.

Cursing loudly at the ceiling, Pete falls onto his back and tugs Patrick’s beanie over his eyes, fighting the horrors of his mind.

Lights out. Lights out. Lights out.

~

Mikey is nodding along to music from his iPod when his earphones are yanked from his ears. He only manages a feeble yelp before Patrick clasps a hand over his mouth to silence him.

“I can’t sleep,” he says after retracting his hand. “I’m so worried about Pete.”

“I know. Me too.” Mikey rubs his thumbs into the palms of Patrick’s hands and sighs when lips meet his own. They stay like that for a few seconds, lost in their love until reality sets in again and Patrick pulls back.

“I’m gonna check on him.”

“I’ll come with you.” Mikey yawns, but he swings his legs over the edge of the bed and fights off sleep. Of _course_ sleep tries to take him as soon as he wants to get up.

He remains there until Patrick calls for him. The distressed yell has Mikey sprinting for the spare room, a million scenarios racing through his mind, and they only worsen when he sees the empty bed.

“Mikey, where is he?!”

“Don’t panic,” Mikey says, even though all he wants to do is cry from fear when dread washes over him. “He hasn’t had a proper meal for days. He might be getting food. Let’s check downstairs.”

They tiptoe down the staircase, opting to leave the lights off in case Pete fell asleep on the sofa and doesn’t want to be disturbed, but also in case Pete is doing something he shouldn’t be doing. The light would give him time to hide any bad intentions.

The lamp on the coffee table glows around the living room, but no-one is here. Patrick prowls towards the kitchen, but Mikey pulls him back with the fabric of his shirt.

He points at Pete’s notebook lying open next to the lamp, and they both sit on the sofa in front of it. Mikey picks it up and reaches for his glasses, only to find they aren’t on his head. 

“Don’t worry, I’ve got mine.” Patrick takes the notebook from him. “I’ll read it word for word, but just this page. I don’t want to be invasive.”

“Just be quiet,” Mikey whispers. Pete will flip out if he catches them reading his writing without prior permission.

“Yellow is a happy color,” Patrick keeps his voice low as he reads, “yet the words on these pages are twisted and grey. A pretty exterior to distract from the carnage residing inside. Is it strange to relate so much to this little book? Happy fronts are so difficult to uphold when your life is crashing down all around you. I might paint this notebook red the way I long to paint my skin red. That way, it’s front will be a beacon to warn others; a telltale sign that everything locked inside it is fucked up and deranged, so damaged and disturbed it cannot possibly be beautiful. Maybe then, I’ll be at peace. Maybe then, I won’t be missed.”

Patrick sets the notebook down with a frown. He asks, “What does he mean by that last sentence?”

Fear envelopes Mikey as he flies off the sofa and bursts through the kitchen door with a panicked shout of Pete’s name. He pays no attention to Patrick running after him. All he can focus on is the silhouette standing by the sink, his head hung low and his hands gripping the counter.

“Pete?” Mikey’s voice is soft this time. The figure looks up and Mikey steps closer until he’s by Pete’s side, close enough to touch him. His hands go straight for Pete’s wrists and he smooths his palms over them, relieved when the skin is dry and untouched.

A choked, ugly sob escapes from Pete’s mouth. “Mikey.” His voice cracks. He sounds like he’s begging for help. “ _ Mikey _ .”

“What?” Mikey whispers and slides his hands up to Pete’s face to cup his jaw. The skin is wet with tears. “What is it?”

“I can’t - I want to -.” Every breath sounds agonizing. “I want to rip my veins out.”

His entire body is trembling and Mikey tells Patrick to turn on the underlight. In the dimly lit room, Pete’s bloodshot eyes are now visible, and his lips are bleeding.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Pete says between gasps. “I want everything to  _ hurt  _ and I - I don’t know why.” 

When he tries to step forward, he stumbles. He’d crash onto the floorboards if it weren’t for Mikey holding him up. He's crying when he calls Mikey’s name again.

“I’m here.” Mikey feathers a hand through Pete’s curls and supports his weight with his other arm. “‘Rick’s here, too. We’re here.”

Patrick stays in the corner, assessing the situation from afar.

“I’m - I’m taking my meds.” Pete is rambling now, his voice hoarse and fragile. He manages to regain his balance and paces once Mikey frees him from his hold. “I’m doing everything right. Meds and therapy and all, and I-I don’t know what’s  _ wrong _ !” He screams the last words and his cries become hysterical, and Mikey grabs him just in time to save him from injury when his legs give way. They kneel on the floor, Mikey resting his forehead against Pete’s as he tries to comfort him.

Footsteps fade into the living room and Mikey turns to see Patrick has vanished.

Pete fights for breath as he struggles to inhale. Mikey will worry about Patrick later. He needs to calm Pete down first.

“Tell me if I’m too close,” he says and shuffles back a little, just to give Pete some space, but he still holds his hand in case he needs something to ground him. Pete’s other hand grips the handle of one of the cupboards underneath the counter, and he drops his head between his knees and cries.

“Why is this - why, I don’t know why -”

Mikey squeezes Pete’s hand tight and laces their fingers together. “You’re mentally ill, Pete,” Mikey whispers, loud enough for Pete to hear over his gasping, and it doesn’t sound like a bad thing when he says it like that. “That doesn’t always go away just because you take your medication or talk to a professional.”

Pete whines and throws his head back. The thud against the cupboard door makes Mikey wince. “What’s  _ happening _ \- I was okay, I swear - I, I can’t - Mikey it  _ hurts _ -”

“You’re having a panic attack. It’ll pass. They always do, right? You aren’t going to die, I promise. This is just your mind’s way of coping.”

Pete coughs so hard he almost chokes on air. He grips Mikey’s arm and pulls him forward, and Mikey lets himself be hauled over next to his boyfriend. Anything to comfort him.

“Hate this. I was okay.” Pete’s voice strains and he groans. Mikey’s heart aches at the pained sound, and the way Pete’s breathing goes erratic all over again.

“You’re bad again,” Mikey says. “And that isn’t a bad thing. It doesn’t make you a bad person, or erase all the progress you’ve made over the years. Progress is progress as soon as you accomplish it, and setbacks don’t erase what you achieved in the past, okay?”

“487,” Pete rasps when he finds energy to speak. “They’re gone.”

“Huh?”

“Days. They’re gone,” he whimpers, and his breathing falls out of sync when he lifts his hoodie up.

Three angry gashes along his waist. Mikey’s lungs burn. He can’t tear his eyes from where those marks are, even after Pete drops the hoodie over the skin.

“Pete-”

“I’m so glad I heard you guys.” Pete coughs again. “Don’t think I coulda stopped-”

“ _ Pete _ -”

“‘Nd I’m sorry, and I’ll be better, I’ll not - I’m sorry, I-”

He doesn’t shut up until Mikey grabs his face and enforces eye contact. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“But-”

“Listen to me, fuck.” An underlying sternness laces Mikey’s otherwise soft voice. “You got bad, and in that moment this was the only way you knew how to fix it. That isn’t your fault.” He lets go of Pete’s face and sits back. “I  _ know _ you’ve been fighting that urge for days now. And I’m proud of you for making it this far. And for telling me.”

Pete tugs at his hair after discarding Patrick’s beanie. When he leans forward, Mikey embraces him without being asked, and he doesn’t speak even when Patrick returns. He’s carrying two duvets and a backpack, which he unzips and sets on the counter. Pete warily raises his head at the racket Patrick makes when he empties the bag’s contents one by one onto the counter. From the floor, neither Pete nor Mikey can see the objects.

“Mikey,” Pete whine. He still trembles and fear plagues his voice, but he’s starting to breathe a little easier.

Mikey hums and rests a hand over where the wounds are. His touch is gentle, and Pete gazes down at his hand.

“I don’t know what to do. It’s like -” he hiccups and exhales a ragged breath. “It’s like I’m at square one again.”

“And you survived square one before,” Mikey says. “You survived everything so far, even when you didn’t want to, and you’ll survive this, too.” He turns his head into Pete’s neck and whispers against his skin. “When someone recovers from an illness and gets sick again six months later, no-one invalidates their recovery or blames them for being sick. They just give them their medicine and continue taking care of them.”

Pete huffs and closes his eyes. Mikey can still hear Patrick banging things about on the counter.

“‘Rick, love? When you’re done causing all that commotion, can you pass me a gauze and some band-aids?”

Patrick knows better than to question why Mikey needs those things. Plus, Mikey suspects Patrick  _ does _ know why he needs those things, even without any hints.

When the objects are tossed directly at Mikey, he thanks Patrick. After ensuring the wounds are blocked from Patrick’s view if he happens to look over, he gets to work.

Patrick had enough common sense to throw a disinfectant over, too. Pete hisses at the stinging when Mikey cleans the wounds, but he isn’t crying anymore.

“You know what I meant about the illness, right?” Mikey asks after wrapping the first strip of bandage around Pete’s waist. “Your past recovery will always matter, even during a relapse -  _ especially _ during a relapse, because it’s a reminder that you got better before and you can get better again. It might be easy, or we might have to up your dosage and injury-proof the whole house. But it doesn’t matter how you get there or how long it takes. What matters is you choose to continue getting there.”

“You mean retry recovering?” Pete watches Mikey bandaging his waist. “I’m back to day zero.”

“And this time, you aren’t in a hospital bed, so right away, there’s progress,” Mikey reassures him, and he smiles when Patrick finally joins them on the floor, duvets in tow. “You aren’t retrying. You’re continuing. Setbacks are inevitable but what matters is you keep on breathing. Honestly, Pete, that on its own is enough.”

Patrick hands the water bottle to Pete, who downs half of its contents without pausing for breath.

“I love you,” Patrick says. “Even on your bad days. I swear.”

Pete nuzzles against Patrick and closes his eyes, his breathing finally stable and his body no longer shaking. Patrick shuts his eyes too, but Mikey squints in the dim light. A faint glow emits from the worktop, but he can’t investigate without disturbing his boyfriends right as things are calming down.

An hour passes and they remain curled up together on the floor. Pete is sound asleep, using Patrick’s head as a pillow, and Patrick hugs him close and hums a little tune for him.

Pete stirs when Mikey moves to stroke his hair, but he doesn’t whine about waking up before he wanted too. His eyes are red and his voice croaky when he says hello, but his cheeks aren’t as sunken as before and his expression isn’t empty. Already, things look better. Mikey shifts closer when Pete sits up.

“My head hurts.” No panic or heartache. Just a normal sentence.

“You want painkillers?” Patrick stifles a yawn. “There are some in the cabinet.”

“No.” Pete stretches his legs and tries to push himself up, his arms weak with fatigue. “Bed.”

Patrick helps Pete up before Mikey has a chance to move, but he steps aside when Mikey slinks his arms around Pete’s torso. Mikey is the tallest, so he’s the best person suited for this. Patrick reckons he’d drop Pete if he had to hold him up for longer than ten seconds. Thank God for Mikey, he thinks.

Patrick motions for Pete to follow and Mikey shadows him as they gather at the counter. They pause at where Patrick was standing earlier. 

Mikey can’t control his smile when he sees it. It’s nothing inherently useful, like medication or new notebooks or another array of supplies for Pete to survive off of until he can bear to live again. It’s just a small set of tealights with bright orange flames, positioned to form the shape of a heart on top of a red piece of paper, which is presumably there to prevent any wax from ruining the counter-top.

“This is so cute.” Pete looses a breath and laughs softly. “Like, really cute.”

“I was trying to like, do something, even though now it sounds really dumb,” Patrick starts.

Mikey hums to indicate for him to stop stalling and get to his point, partially because he’s interested and partially because he really needs to sleep.

“So, like, in that thing you wrote that was on the coffee table, you were like ‘ugh, this sucks. This book is a happy color and not red so it doesn’t represent the darkness inside of me-’”

“I don’t sound  _ that _ edgy,” Pete says. "...Do I?"

“No, but, like, I just thought you were only focusing on the bad stuff inside of you and not the good stuff. You didn’t acknowledge that good can shine from under all the darkness. You only focused on the good exterior. So, like, the red is you currently, 'cause you're in a bad place, but there’s still light in you, which is what these candles are? I tried to get all poetic like you but it’s dumb and-”

Patrick’s words fizzle out when Pete hugs him tight and sways him, pressing kisses against his neck and murmuring his appreciations. Mikey smiles at the heart-shaped glow, and he joins in on the hug.

This will pass.

~

Recovery sneaks up on him like a midsummer’s warmth, so faint he doesn’t feel it from where he mopes in the cold.

He brushes his teeth for the first time in a week, but he tells himself it doesn’t matter because he still can’t stand to look at the shower. He goes back to their normal sleeping arrangements, but he still curls in on himself whenever Patrick holds him.

Last night, Patrick came home with a new white notebook and some paint supplies. He told Pete to paint the notebook whatever color he needs it to be, and that yellow means whatever he wants it to mean. 

So Pete sits cross-legged on the floor, mixing the colors on the palette until he has a blob of midnight blue and a blob of deep, blood red. He stares at the colors until they dry up, but he doesn’t break down at his inability to lift the paintbrush. His mind tells him it’s okay that he can’t do this right now.

Maybe he is feeling better.

He ventures downstairs. Mikey is reading something called  _ ‘Salem’s Lot _ and Patrick is on the other end of the sofa with a bowl of chips on his lap and earphones in his ears.

They’re okay. They don’t care that he can’t function all the way right now. They love him; all of him, even the bad parts, and for the first time in days Pete isn’t telling himself this to convince his mind it’s true. This time, he knows it’s real.

He stands at the doorway with a hand up his shirt, hovering over the fresh band-aids. Mikey helps change them twice a day, and Patrick still hasn’t mentioned it. Pete is glad he gets to initiate that conversation, and when Patrick glances up at him with all the love in the world, Pete considers telling him tonight.

He wants to be with them tonight. His hand goes to his hair, where he runs his fingers through the tangled knots, and he grimaces at the oily feeling.

“Mikey. Shower?” He asks quietly, and Mikey abandons his novel without marking his current page.

From his spot on the sofa. Patrick smiles wide at the ground.

~

All he wants is to stand under the water and let it wash away his thoughts. And he does exactly that, and he relishes in the tranquility, in Mikey washing his hair for him and tenderly kissing his lips and cheeks and shoulders and anywhere else he can reach standing up.

He doesn’t go down. For once, Pete is grateful for that. They’re more than that, and Mikey must not be haunted anymore by their fight last month. Mikey just needs to exist next to him, just like Pete knows that he has to do the same for Mikey and Patrick.

After his shower he sits wrapped in his towel in front of his paints. The air feels fresh over the three healing wounds, but he knows they’ll scar because of their depth.

“They’re a constant reminder that I relapsed.” He broods when Mikey checks up on him after getting himself dressed.

Pete has no idea Patrick is in earshot until a small voice speaks up in the hallway. “They’ll remind you that you made it.” His head peaks around the door and he smiles at his lovers. “All pain heals, even if it scars.”

“I didn’t tell him,” Mikey whispers when Patrick disappears to next door, where Pete can hear him thumping about and vocalizing his annoyance at not being able to find Ace’s tub of fish flakes. "I don't know how he knows."

“He’s not stupid. I knew he knew.” Pete trails his fingers along the white notebook. “He keeps doing that thing where he looks at my waist and then at me, and then he'll nod and smile and then go do something else. He wants me to know that he knows, but he's just waiting for me to bring it up first.”

“He’s right, you know? What he just said.” Mikey presses a kiss to the nape of Pete’s neck and squeezes his shoulders. “And he was right this morning, too, when he gave you that notebook. Yellow is whatever color you want it to be.”

Pete’s eyes wander back to the palette.

“I’m proud of you. And so is he." Another kiss. "We’re gonna bake cookies later tonight. You’re welcome to join, if you want. We’ll save you some either way. I love you.”

After Mikey clicks the door shut behind him, Pete exhales a long breath. It doesn’t hurt to do so. Every breath feels light, easy, effortless, and he smiles at the warmth of the sun streaming through gaps in the blinds .

Yellow is a happy color. But it is also determination and survival. It’s the sound of Mikey’s voice in darkness, and it’s Patrick’s infinite loving smiles.

His hand is steady when he lifts the brush, dips it in the yellow, and swirls it along the notebook.

He’s going to get better.

**Author's Note:**

> (Sorry for any mistakes I had no-one proof-reading this for me because writing it was very spur of the moment ahah).
> 
> Thank you so much if you read this far!! Kudos & feedback are appreciated as always <3


End file.
